


Mistletoe

by Brokenrook



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, Christmas Party, Drinking, Gaby is a good friend, Implied/Referenced Torture, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 13:35:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20471873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brokenrook/pseuds/Brokenrook
Summary: Writing prompt:"Kiss me, there's mistletoe.""No, there isn't.""Oh well, kiss me anyway."





	Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I realize it is August. I don't care.

"Please." Ilya's hands shook as he reached across the table for Gaby's hand.

She pulled away."Please don't do this to me, I'm begging." Ilya tried to meet Gaby's chocolate eyes.

She sighed. "Ilya..."

"This will kill me!" He threw his hands up, standing up from the table and going to lean against the counter. "Can't you believe me?"

"Ilya!" Gaby groaned. "It's just a Christmas party!"

"No it's not! It's Solo's party!"

"Exactly!"

"I can't go."

Rolling her eyes Gaby stood up from her chair and crossed the tiny kitchen, setting a delicate hand on his arm. "What is eating at you? You practically live at Napoleon's when we aren't on a mission. What's different about going there for a work Christmas party?"

"I don't live there." He grumbled, motioning around the dimly lit kitchen. "I live here."

Gaby glanced around the apartment that U.N.C.L.E had "given" Ilya and snorted. "No you don't."

Ilya frowned. "Yes I do, my things are here."

"Ilya, you don't have things." Gaby said. "And before you say it, a chess board, a tea kettle and a sweater are not enough to constitute having things here. You don't even have a couch."

Gaby motioned through the open kitchen door to the room that would normally be considered the living room. Though instead of a couch and Ilya had set up a camp cot against the wall and a reading lamp. The room attached to the living room, the bedroom, was empty, save for a bug out bag and a semiautomatic rifle under the floor boards.

"Nearly all of your clothes, and all of your books, are at Solo's, why don't you bite the bullet and live with him? You already sleep on his couch most nights anyway."

Ilya frowned, shaking his head. "Gaby, please, tell him I am ill or something, I can't go to this party, I'm not a party person. Not a Christmas party person, I'm Russian, Christmas isn't until January."

Sighing, Gaby pulled on her coat. "I'm not lying to Napoleon because you want to be a holiday hermit. You know, if you don't show up, he'll come looking for you in the morning. But I'm not your mother, you make your own decisions. I'll see you there!" She smiled as she opened the front door and waved goodbye.

"No you won't." Ilya smiled as he waved back, then closed the door and leaned heavily against it.

With a sigh, he pushed off the door and into the kitchen, in search a cup of tea to ward off the stress headache that always followed after one of Gaby's imploring visits. As Ilya busied himself filling the kettle and taking out his only mug, then measuring out a conservative portion of black tea, he thought about what Gaby had said. It was true that he spent most of, if not nearly all of, his time in Napoleon's apartment.

In his defence, it made more sense for him to spend his downtime between missions there. It was simple science, really. Napoleon could cook, and Ilya didn't like cooking. He had an extensive library, and Ilya owned at best five books. It was also, not that Ilya would ever admit it, nice to not be constantly looking over his shoulder. When he was with Napoleon he knew someone was watching his back. And as much as he liked to think that he was above such bourgeois capitalist needs like expensive wine, a record player, and yes, a couch, he had to admit that he did enjoy them when he had Napoleon for company.

Sipping his tea, Ilya checked his watch. 4pm. According to Gaby, the party was starting at 6:30pm, but she had told him that he wasn't allowed to show up till seven o'clock. Something about it being normal to show up half an hour late and that American hosts expected that. Fashionably late, that's what she had called it. Ilya thought it was beyond stupid, but this wasn't his country and he didn't make the rules.

"Three hours to make a decision..." He hummed to himself, moving to sit down at the table, taking stock of his current living conditions.

It wasn't hard for him to see how from an outsider's point of view, it looked more like he was on an extended stake out, instead of living here, but the apartment wasn't anything to be ashamed of. It wasn't dingy, all the kitchen cupboards had handles, and it was more than enough space for a single person. If Gaby and Napoleon hadn't laughed at him when he set up his cot in the breakfast nook, he never would've used the living room or bedroom. But as Napoleon put it, that's just not how we do it in America.

Ilya huffed into his cup of tea. He knew that he would have to go to the party. It was his obligation as Napoleon's partner to at least make an appearance, but the very idea of the party made him shudder.

Except not in the way Gaby had thought. He wasn't antisocial, or trying to make a point about the overly opulent lives that capitalists indulged in. He just didn't think he could bear to see Napoleon that way, in that context. When they first met, Ilya assumed that Napoleon was a vain, shallow man that only cared to have fun and throw insane parties. A modern Jay Gatsby if you will. Though as time went by he learned that that wasn't totally true. Of course it was partly true, Napoleon loves parties and being the centre of attention, but not to the degree he once thought. After seeing other side of Napoleon he would never be able to see him as anything simple.

While Napoleon loved to cook lavish dinners, he also made bacon and eggs for breakfast in the mornings when Ilya slept over on the couch. Despite proclaiming himself a music connoisseur and above the mainstream tunes played in shops downtown, he still hummed along to the radio when he thought Ilya wasn't listening. That was the side of Napoleon that had softened Ilya to him. The side that puts his head on Ilya's shoulder under the guise of wanting to read the book Ilya held in his lap, even though it was in Cyrillic, and then pouted till he read aloud to him. The side that wandered around with messy hair in the morning in a T-shirt and shorts.He knew if he went to this party that wouldn't be the Napoleon he saw there. No, the lady's man would be there. The Napoleon from missions would be there. It didn't bother him that Napoleon flirted with everyone that had a pulse when they were in the field, but this was different. To see Napoleon Solo: suave lady's man, flirting with men and women alike in the place where he usually saw Napoleon Solo: the man who bought another bookshelf so he would have room for Ilya's books, made his head spin. Just the thought of seeing Napoleon press kisses on Dana from code breaking's cheeks in the same kitchen where they ate breakfast together cause a dull pain in his chest.

But not because he was in love with Napoleon. No, Ilya wasn't in love with his partner. He didn't fall asleep on his cot at night thinking about how it would feel to be in Dana's shoes, or what it would be like to always have someone to come home to. No, definitely not. That would be unprofessional. It's also unprofessional for Napoleon to flirt so openly when not for work. That's what was making him upset, yes, Napoleon is being very unprofessional.

Setting down his now empty mug, Ilya got up from the table and shuffled over to his cot. The tea had put a dent in the pain brewing behind his temples, but he knew the only real cure would be sleep.

_Maybe I'll sleep through the party._ Ilya mused, but he knew that wasn't true. He'd wake up at six without a headache, and therefore without an excuse, and he'd get dressed for this ridiculous party.His cot creaked as he laid down, and Ilya studied the sparkled ceiling for a moment before turning over and falling into the sweet embrace of sleep.

* * *

As he had predicted, Ilya woke up at six feeling like the textbook definition of average, unfortunately for him. He didn't feel bad enough to feel legitimate if he stayed home, but he wasn't exactly walking on sunshine either.

"I'll just go for half an hour." Ilya said to the empty apartment. "Say hello and then duck out once everyone has indulged enough to ignore you."

He nodded to himself, yes, he could do that. Just like always, fool the crowd into ignoring his presence. Or in this case, ignoring his absence. _ Plus, _ he mused. _ Somebody needs to keep Napoleon from straying too far from professional. _

Once he dressed, Ilya poked his head out the window, praying for apocalyptic weather. Of course, the night was beautiful. New York was having it's mildest winter in the last fifty years. Ilya assumed this was because the entire universe seemed to always go out of its way to make his life harder, but it also could be because of all the pollution, he wasn't sure.

To kill time, Ilya checked to make sure all the knobs on the stove were twisted firmly into the off position, then washed his mug and put it away in the cupboard above the sink. Then he checked his watch. 6:15pm.

Suppressing a groan, he glanced around the flat for something else to clean to kill more time, but came up empty handed. _Damn my military cleanliness._

Deciding against loitering in his kitchen for forty minutes, Ilya pulled on his jacket and hat. He'd just walk to Napoleon's, that'd kill enough time.

_ And, _ he mused, _ it'll make it easier to sneak out because no one would be able to notice my car missing. _

Ilya severely overestimated the amount of time it would take him to trudge the kilometre to Napoleon's. The radio had mentioned that sidewalks were covered with snow, so he thought that would slow him down enough that he would arrive "fashionably late", but that wasn't the case. Ilya was going to have to find a new radio station to listen to. He couldn't bring himself to get his news from someone who had the audacity to call a measly centimetre of snow a covered sidewalk. Overdramatic American.

And yet, here he was, leaning against a tree in the park across the street from Napoleon's classic six apartment, glaring up at the warmly lit windows where he could see a figure milling about that definitely wasn't Napoleon.

He checked his watch. 6:30pm. He suppressed a groan. _I should've known Gaby was lying to me, there's no such thing as fashionably late, the party has already started._

Pushing off the tree, Ilya stomped across the street and made his way up to Napoleon's third floor apartment.

* * *

It turns out there is such a thing as fashionably late, and Ilya unfortunately found that out too late. Too late being when Napoleon opened the door for him, wrapped in a housecoat, with hair still wet from the shower.

"Peril?" Napoleon looked surprised, but he covered it with a smile. "I'm so glad you could make it. And early too! You excited to let out all of that suppressed Christmas spirit?"

Ilya scowled, knowing that Napoleon was teasing him, but he couldn't bring himself to tease him back. Instead, he went with the safe play and pulled the foreigner card.

"Gaby said start at 6:30pm. I am not early, I am on time. It is good manners to be on time." Ilya huffed, giving a pointed glance to the towel hanging around Napoleon's neck. _ And to be dressed when your guests arrive. _

Napoleon just huffed a light laugh, apparently immune to embarrassment. "Well then, make yourself comfortable, you know where the drinks are, I'm going to finish getting ready."

Ilya forced himself to nod and Napoleon took this as enough of a sign that his partner was placated, sauntering off to dress himself in one of his outrageously expensive dry-clean only suits.

Feeling more exposed than ever, Ilya glanced around the empty entryway. He was anything but fashionably late, he was, if anything, unattractively early. He knew he should take off his coat and shoes, and make himself a drink, but all he really wanted to do was turn and run. _ Yes, that'll work _ . Ilya decided. _ I've embarrassed myself enough for tonight, I'll phone Cowboy in the morning and tell him I got a sudden headache. _

Turning to leave, Ilya pushed the front door open, only to be caught red handed.

"Sir?" A voice echoed through the entryway, making him stop dead and turn slowly.

Standing with a frown across her sharp features was a lady who could rival Gaby for the best "I'm done with your shit" expression. Napoleon's part time maid; Daphne. _The person at the window_, Ilya realized, feeling like a real dunce.

"Mr.Solo asked me to take your coat and make you comfortable." Her eyes drifted to the door knob that Ilya was still clutching. The unspoken message was clear: Napoleon asked me to babysit you until he finished preening at the mirror, and if you try to make a run for it, I will make sure Napoleon knows before your shoes hit snow. "Did you forget something in your car?"

"No." Ilya coughed. "Door didn't close properly, frozen."

Daphne thankfully refused to acknowledge Ilya's bullshit and simply motioned for his coat.

Once Ilya's coat was safely locked out of his reach, Daphne, taking pity on the poor Russian, led him to the kitchen.

"The rest of Mr.Solo's guests won't arrive till around seven, so you are welcome to wait in the kitchen till they arrive. The floor in the living room is still a little wet, I just finished washing it." Daphne said, peeking into the oven where a batch of Christmas cookies were browning.

Ilya knew Daphne was lying about the floor, but he was thankful for the opportunity to have somewhere to hide for awhile. He didn't think he could be the one man reception party to the small army of guests Napoleon had most likely invited.

"Yes, thank you."

He stood awkwardly next to the icebox, trying to take up the least amount of space as possible and failing because he was approximately the size of a young elephant. Finally, Daphne took pity on him.

"Do you know how to ice cookies?"

"What?"

"Icing? You know, the sugary stuff? Can you put some on the cookies?" Daphne motioned with an icing covered spatula to the mountain of Christmas cookies on the counter.

"Oh yes, I do."

Rolling up his sleeves, he accepted a knife from Daphne, who smirked when he took it and turned back to her work.

"So..." Daphne drawled after a moment of silence. "Mr.?"

"Kuryakin." Ilya supplied. "Can call me Ilya. Kuryakin is mouthful for Americans."

"Oh! You're Ilya!" Daphne smiled for the first time since she had caught Ilya trying to escape. "Mrs. Silvermann told me about you."

"What she say?"

Mrs.Silvermann was the other woman who usually worked for Napoleon.

"Nothing much, just that you are here a lot and that you and Mr.Solo are very close. She said she didn't think you'd be here tonight though."

"Where is Mrs.Silvermann?" Ilya asked, suddenly realizing how odd it was for the older woman not to be here governing the household the night of such an important party.

"Oh, she has a cold, she asked me to cover for her."

Ilya nodded, satisfied with the young girl's answer, and happy to go back to their companionable silence as they iced cookies in tandem. Daphne, on the other hand, was much happier to continue prying information out of Ilya.

"So, Ilya, how do you know Mr.Solo?"

The cookie in Ilya's hand crumbled. _Oh shit_. He swore internally. How much did this girl know about Cowboy, or more specifically about what they did?

"We are coworkers." Ilya decided to play it safely and gauge what Daphne knew.

"Oh! You're a model too? I should've known looking at you."

_ A model? _ Ilya moaned internally. _ Of course, Napoleon's ego got the better of him. _

"I don't think I've ever seen your ads, but I guess you model overseas like Mr.Solo. Tell me, what do you model?"

Ilya felt his ears turn red, and he was just about to cough up an answer, when a voice behind him saved him from playing the Roman fool.

"Oh Daph," Napoleon breezed into the kitchen,now dressed, and grabbed an iced cookie off the table. "Don't embarrass poor Ilya, he gets so shy talking about work. You see, the clothes he models aren't exactly the kind that makes front page on respectable American magazines. Are they now, Ilya?"

"What?" Frowning, Daphne looked between Napoleon's smirk and Ilya's beet red face, then back to Napoleon, who, oh lord help us, winked.

It was then that all the pieces fell into place for Daphne. A little taken aback, she stared at Ilya.

"You're an underwear model?"

If it was possible, Ilya turned a deeper shade of red, vowing that he would kill Napoleon after tonight's party.

Obviously reading Ilya's murderous thoughts, Napoleon laughed and slung an arm over his shoulder.

"Come along Ilya, let's get you a drink, the party is in full swing and I'd hate for you to miss a moment of it."

Ilya, still trying to process everything that had just transpired, let himself be guided out of the kitchen and into the living room where what seemed like half the neighbourhood was basking in the holiday cheer.

Ilya froze in the doorway, momentarily stunned by the crowd, but he recovered quickly and followed Napoleon into the crowd. It pressed in on him and he instantly felt claustrophobic.

"Cowboy?" Ilya tried to get his partner's attention.

"Solo?" Still, Napoleon did not turn.

"Napoleon." Ilya said firmly, and his partner turned to him with a frown.

"What?"

"I think I need to go home." Ilya motioned to the crowd. "This, this is too much for me."

Napoleon just laughed. "Uh-uh Peril, you have to socialize."

"These are not my kind of people."

"Let me introduce you to Dr.Goldberg, I think he'll be up your alley. He's an archeologist, practically a fossil himself. He's as dry as sand, you'll love him." Napoleon steered him over to the window where a man in a tweed jacket with salt and pepper hair was swirling a glass of scotch.

"Cowb-" Ilya's protests were cut off.

"Doctor!" Napoleon threw on his hundred volt smile. "I want you to meet my coworker, Mr.Kuryakin, you too will have a lot in common."

Dr.Goldberg looked Ilya up and down, and then stuck his hand out for a handshake. "It is nice to meet you, Mr.Kuryakin."

Ilya shook the man's hand. "Pleasure is mine."

"Man, you guys are just hitting it off!" Napoleon smiled brightly. "Hey Doc, say, did you bring Mrs. Goldberg with you?"

"Yes I did, she's dancing just over there." The old man motioned through the crowd to where a young bottle blonde was jiving along to the song blaring from the record player.

Ilya frowned. The girl was young enough to be the doctor's daughter.

"Wow! She's hit the floor early this year! I better go get my dance in!" Napoleon laughed. "I'll be back in a bit!"

"Solo-" Ilya started, but it was too late, Napoleon had already been swallowed up by the crowd.

"So..." The doctor drawled. "You work with Mr.Solo?"

"In a manner of speaking..."

"Ah so you are-"

"No!" Ilya cut him off. "No! I am not an underwear model!"

Dr.Goldberg seemed taken aback. "I think there has been a misunderstanding, I was under the impression that you were a professor of Russian literature at Columbia with Mr.Solo..."

Ilya was going to kill Napoleon. He wasn't even going to wait till after the party.

"Oof." Gaby waltzed up to the gobsmacked doctor and placed a glass in his hands. "Well that's going to be a tough impression to surmount. Please excuse us, doctor, Mr.Kuryakin needs a drink."

Gratefully, Ilya followed Gaby to the bar. She grabbed a bottle of vodka and filled a glass, but Ilya snapped up the bottle and took a long pull.

He sighed. "Gaby..."

"Yeah you fucked up, have another drink." She tipped up the end so Ilya to suck down another mouthful.

"I should just go home."

"Ilya no, Solo will kill me if I let you leave."

"Why?!" Ilya exploded. "Why does he care if I'm here? He's said all of two words to me tonight, and he knows I don't fit here."

Gaby sighed. "Calm down comrade. I'll answer your questions, but for every question you do a shot."

"Why?"

"Because your drama with Solo bores me and I want to see you shit-faced."

Ilya looked incredulous, then caved. "I drink out of the bottle, okay?"

"Works for me."

"Why does Solo make me come to these things?" Ilya asked.

"Drink."

"Answer first."

"No, drink first, then I'll answer."

"No, I don't trust you." Ilya frowned.

"Too bad, my game, my rules."

"You know what-" Ilya paused when Gaby gave him a hard look. "Fine." He took a swig.

"Thank you." Gaby hopped up to sit on the bar, making the bottles rattle slightly.

"So?" Ilya implored.

"So?"

"So, why does Solo invite me to these?"

"Uh-uh drink first, no cheating." Gaby wagged a finger and snorted.

"Gaby, I just drank, you didn't answer." Ilya pointed out.

"I don't care, drink."

Ilya quickly realized that arguing with a tipsy Gaby was an exercise in futility, and took another sip.

"Good boy," Gaby reached up to pat Ilya's hair, but the Russian maneuvered out of her reach. "Napoleon invites you because you are his partner-"

"That's not a reason-"

"And because he likes you." Gaby waggled her eyebrows suggestively, but Ilya decided he hadn't drunk enough to go into that.

"We have a work relationship, yes."

Gaby laughed. "And Napoleon has been working on a relationship for the last year."

"What?"

"Drink, then ask."

Ilya sipped. "What do you mean?"

"You really can't see it, can you?" Gaby sighed.

"See what?"

"I can't help you with this one, you might as well just finish that bottle, maybe drunk you won't be so emotionally constipated." With that Gaby hopped off the bar and went off to dance.

Ilya was confused. Gaby wasn't making any sense, or she was making less sense than usual, so he was totally lost. What did she mean working on a relationship? Just thinking about it made his head and heart ache. Did Gaby mean a romantic relationship?

_ Does she mean that Napoleon wants me like I want him? _ Ilya dared to think for a moment, but he pushed the feeling down.

_ Of course not, Napoleon isn't like you. He isn't broken, he isn't diseased like you. _

Ilya glanced around the apartment, then at the grandfather clock. It was half past eleven, that had to be long enough for no one to notice him leaving.

Weighing the bottle in his grasp, Ilya realized that there was at least a quarter of it left. He couldn't leave it on the bar, not after he'd been drinking straight from the bottle, and it was too good of vodka to pour out.

_ Guess I'll just finish it then. _ Ilya decided. _ Then I'll walk home. _

Now, Ilya prided himself on his tolerance. He'd hung from his toes for hours without saying a word. He'd been water-boarded within an inch of his life, burned, cut, and poisoned, and he'd kept a death grip on his faculties. But tonight, the great Ilya Kuryakin met defeat in the form of a bottle of vodka and an empty stomach.

He was, to put it lightly, was hammered.

The room had a certain glow to it, and everything seemed a little bit easier, whether it was drinking, or talking, or dancing.

God, he loved to dance. He loved the way Gaby's eyes lit up when he crossed the apartment to join her on the floor. He loved moving with the thrumming music, and he loved the bottle blonde that was spinning with him across the floor. That is until someone touched the blonde's shoulder.

"Mrs.Goldberg?" The voice rumbled, and Ilya knew that voice. Napoleon. "Mind if I cut in?"

"Go ahead Napoleon, I think he needs a little break anyway." Mrs.Goldberg laughed and flitted off.

"Yes, you're right." Napoleon placed his hands firmly on Ilya's biceps to stop his movements and squinted up at his face. "Oh Peril, you're plastered. Come on, lets go sit down."

Ilya didn't want to stop dancing, but he also didn't want Napoleon to remove his hands, so he followed obediently.

Napoleon led him away from the buzz of the party to the window seat, where Ilya sat down heavily and pressed his head against the cool window with a sigh.

"See? Isn't that better, Peril?" Napoleon chuckled. 

Ilya hummed in agreement, and closed his eyes, but opened them suddenly when he heard a roar of applause from the front door.

"What's that?"

"What's what?" Napoleon frowned, looking about the room.

"The-the, uh-" Ilya had lost the word, so he clapped his hands together and looked helplessly at Napoleon.

"The applause ?" Napoleon laughed. "They're clapping for the couple under the mistletoe."

"Mistletoe?"

"They don't have that in Russia?"

"Of course we have it." Ilya huffed and looked away. "Why do they clap?"

"Oh, because they kissed."

"What?" Now Ilya was even more confused.

"It's a tradition, if two people get caught under the mistletoe, they have to kiss or it is bad luck." Napoleon explained.

"Oh." Ilya paused. _ I wonder how hard it would be to get Napoleon under the mistletoe. _ He thought absently. _ Probably not that difficult. _ He decided, and tried to stand up, but the room promptly began to spin and Napoleon pulled him back down quickly.

"Woah there Peril," Napoleon slung an arm across his shoulders. "Got a hot date or something? Just hang tight a little while, okay? I think you drained most of my vodka reserve."

With his eyes closed, Ilya leaned into Napoleon. _ Maybe I should take it easy for a few minutes, _ He thought dimly, before slipping off to sleep. 

* * *

Napoleon couldn't believe it. He just couldn't believe it. It was the loudest party of the year, and Ilya, the self proclaimed lightest sleeper, Mr. "I would wake up to a cat walking down the hall"was conked out and drooling on his best suit.

_ Unbelievable. _ Napoleon trying his best to be annoyed with Ilya, but it was hard when he looked so peaceful, so he settled for fondly put out. 

From across the room, Gaby spotted him and gave him a thumbs up. Of course Gaby was behind the inebriation of the Red Peril. Huffing a laugh, Napoleon shifted in the window seat, trying to displace some of the nearly two hundred pound Russian that was pressed against him, but failing miserably when Ilya snuggled in even closer and Napoleon felt his heart clench painfully.

_ Idiot. _ He thought to himself angrily. _ Don't do this to yourself again. Don't pretend Ilya is doing this for any other reason than being severely drunk. Don't do this to Ilya. He's your friend. _

And yet, Napoleon couldn't help but test it one more time. Slowly, almost gently, he extracted his arm from behind Ilya. Ilya didn't even stir.

_ See? _ Napoleon thought with a sigh. _ You aren't anything special. _

With a glance around the room, Napoleon decided he should get back to the party. Obviously Ilya didn't need him to be his nursemaid, and he was the host after all. He should be doing host things, like filling glasses and flirting with his friends' wives. Napoleon had just made up his mind to get up, to get his mind off of Ilya, when fingers brushed his sleeves.

"-owboy?" The voice was husky with sleep and heavy with accent, and Napoleon tried to repress his shudder. God, he would kill to hear that voice say his name, not Cowboy, not Solo, he wanted to hear Ilya call him Napoleon. 

_ Stop it! _ Napoleon chided himself. _ Ilya is your partner, act like it! _

"Yes, Peril?" Napoleon hid behind his teasing smirk and made his face a mask of mild amusement. "Sleep well?"

Ilya looked up at him blearily, and blinked heavily, like he was trying to bring the world into focus. "My head feels..."

"Terrible?" Napoleon guessed. "Come on, you can take a nap in the bedroom." 

He slung an arm under Ilya's broad shoulders and hoisted him up. 

Ilya grunted in protest, but let Napoleon move him nonetheless. Together they stumbled out of the living room, into the kitchen, and down the hall, pausing in front of the half opened door that led to Napoleon's bedroom.

"Alright," Napoleon removed his arm, and nudged Ilya towards the darkened room. "Sweet dreams Peril."

"Wait." The word was more of an exhale than anything.

Napoleon paused, trying not to shiver at the way Ilya spoke. He couldn't help but want to laugh at the situation. Here he was, in the exact position he had dreamt about a thousand times; alone with Ilya in a darkened space, and Ilya was asking him to stay, but he couldn't. Ilya was beyond drunk, and Napoleon wasn't the kind of person to take advantage of someone. Not to mention that ten feet away there was a room filled with his friends and colleagues, and at any moment one of them could see them. 

"Napoleon?" Ilya's voice was hesitant.

Napoleon didn't turn around. 

"Yes?" It came out sharp.

Suddenly, Napoleon felt fingers encircle his wrist and pull him back. He crashed against Ilya's chest, and stumbled, but Ilya steadied him, trapping Napoleon in his arms. 

"Kiss me," A soft smile danced across Ilya's face. "There's mistletoe."

Napoleon was shocked, he didn't know what to say, he didn't know what to do, he didn't even know how to breathe. "No there isn't." 

"Oh," Ilya glanced at the ceiling, then gave Napoleon the smallest of shrugs. "Well, kiss me anyway."

Napoleon wanted to. He wanted to so badly it hurt. 

_ But you can't. _ The voice in his head reminded him. _ Anyone could see you. This could be a trick. You could kiss him and that's it, they would have proof that you are deviant. Someone would tell Waverly, and you'd be done. No more UNCLE, no more Gaby, no more Ilya. _

_ No more Ilya. _

Feeling like crying, Napoleon shook his head and prepared himself to pull away, his heart breaking as he saw Ilya's face drop.

"Ilya-" He started.

"No." Ilya pulled away, pushing off Napoleon's hands like they burned, all traces of that soft smile buried under a mountain of shame and hurt and simmering rage. "I have to go." He shoved Napoleon out of his way, making a bee-line for the front door.

"Ilya! Wait!" Napoleon couldn't bear to watch him walk away. He knew if he let Ilya go now he'd never really have him again. 

So Napoleon did the only thing he could do: he went after him.

* * *

He may have been reeling on his feet an hour ago, but now, as Ilya pounded down the front steps of Napoleon's building, he felt stone cold sober. 

Thoughts swirled through his head, colliding with each other and making Ilya want to scream. He wanted to sit in the dirty slush and cry. He wanted the ground to swallow him whole. He wanted to turn back time and never go to that stupid party in the first place. 

Ignoring the bite of the snow through his socked feet, Ilya took in the deserted street, and on instinct started running towards the park. 

_ Don't think about the look in Napoleon's eyes. _ Ilya thought as jogged down the dimly lit path. _ Don't think about how he looked at you with pity, like a dog who would have to be put down. Don't think about how he's going to tell Waverly. Don't think about how they'll send you back to Russia. Don't think about what they will do to you there. _

Ilya thought about all of those things, and his stomach turned painfully.

Lurching dangerously, Ilya pulled himself to a patch of spindly bushes just in time to throw up the vodka that caused this problem in the first place. After dry heaving for a few moments, Ilya rested his hands on his knees and panted. He refused to acknowledge the hot tears that were spilling down his cheeks. 

_ Get yourself together. _ Ilya told himself. _ Make a plan, get ahead of this. _

He pushed himself up to standing, and started walking quickly towards his apartment. 

_ Get home, and phone Oleg. Tell him you want to come back to the KGB. Tell him you hate the Americans. Be a good Soviet. _

Ilya nodded to himself. He could play the part of the Motherland's perfect son. If he made it home to Russia before the news of his perversions, he could say that they were lies made up by the Americans to discredit him. He could get on a flight tonight, all he had to do is tell Oleg that U.N.C.L.E was an elaborate trick to steal Soviet secrets, and Oleg would bring him home as a hero.

_ Yes. _ Ilya thought. _ You can do that. You'll never need to see Napoleon again. You can stuff this part of yourself down so far it will suffocate, and then bury yourself in your work. This will be in the past. By morning this will never have even happened. _

He ran faster.

* * *

Napoleon spilled out of the apartment building, coat half done up and cursed. Ilya was nowhere to be seen. His chest heaved as he looked out into the December darkness, searching frantically for anything that could give him a hint, but Ilya was a professional. If he didn't want to leave tracks, he didn't, end of story.

He'd lost him. Napoleon cursed again and kicked the snow. 

"That way." A voice behind him drawled, and Napoleon spun to see Daphne leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette.

"What?" 

"He went that way." Daphne motioned across the street. "You are looking for Mr.Kuryakin, no? He ran into the park like the devil was chasing him. No coat, no gloves, I don't even think he had shoes on."

Napoleon couldn't believe his luck. "Daphne..." He started.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, there's no time for that. I'm not going to tell anyone about you two. If you want to catch him, you need to go now. "

"You don't understand how much this means to m-"

"Go!" 

"Right." Napoleon took off into the park, yelling his thanks over his shoulder. 

It didn't take long for Napoleon to zero in on a figure running across open field towards Ilya's apartments, and once he recognized the heavy gait of his partner, he sped up. Even though Ilya could outlast him over long distances, Napoleon was faster in a sprint. As he got closer, Napoleon risked yelling. 

"Ilya! Stop!"

Ilya, obviously, did not stop, but he did falter, just for a second, and that was all Napoleon needed. He lunged, like a rugby player in a desperate attempt to stop a try, and-thanks to Ilya's lack of shoes and the momentum he had built up- flattened Ilya into a snowdrift.

Of course, Ilya came up fighting, thrashing underneath Napoleon like a wildcat, flipping them so Napoleon was the one buried in the snow, then wrapping his hands around Napoleon's throat.

_ Oh my God. _ Napoleon thought horribly. _ He's going to strangle me. He hates what I am so much that he's going to kill me. _

"Ilya!" He gasped, feeling the hands tighten and his vision began to blur. "Ilya please! I'm sorry!"

"Not good enough."

"What do you want?" Napoleon choked.

"Promise me you say nothing to Waverly, to anyone. This night never happened, understand? I leave and you say nothing." Ilya seemed to be struggling for breathe just as much as Napoleon.

"Leave?" Napoleon twisted underneath Ilya and brought a knee up between his legs. Ilya groaned and loosened his grip, giving Napoleon the chance to wriggle free.

Ilya grabbed for him again, but Napoleon rolled out of his reach. "What do you mean leave?"

"I'm going home." Ilya bit out. "I'm not letting you bury me here because I disgust you."

"Disgust me?" Napoleon stopped dead. "Ilya, you don't disgust me, I love you. You make me crazy."

Ilya froze, his red rimmed eyes wide. 

"What?"

Napoleon took a cautious step forward, his hands out in the international sign of "don't strangle me". 

"I've loved you since Italy. You are the only person I've ever felt this way about. I love your stupid bow ties and your books and your sweaters, and I love you."

For a moment, there was complete stillness, then Ilya moved. 

Napoleon tensed, waiting for the fists to fall, willing to let Ilya beat him to a pulp if that's what he needed, but instead he found himself wrapped in a bone crushing hug.

"I'm sorry." Napoleon could feel Ilya's chest shaking against his, his heart hammering. "Napoleon, I didn't know, I thought-"

Napoleon shushed him, letting his hands card through his short blonde locks. "I know, Ilya, I know. shh, it's okay."

They stood together in the snow, clutching each other, until Napoleon broke the silence.

"If it's alright, I'd like to kiss you now."

Except Napoleon didn't get the chance. Because Ilya beat him to it.


End file.
